


The Queen of England's Cure for Nightmares

by shiverfawkes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Nightmares, Parentlock, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 18:49:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16624472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiverfawkes/pseuds/shiverfawkes
Summary: Rosie has a nightmare. John and Sherlock are quick to the rescue





	The Queen of England's Cure for Nightmares

The room was filled with warm content. The two men were sat in their designated chairs. The television was playing something nonsensical, and neither man was paying attention to it, it could have been The Last Leg or Loose Women, and no effort to change the channel would have arisen.

They were tired, exhausted even, a case had just been wrapped up, and Rosie had been put to bed long ago, John made a mental note to buy Mrs Hudson flowers or something as a thank-you. But John didn’t want to retire just yet, perfectly happy to spend a few more moments in the late-night company of his flatmate.

Sherlock seemed to comply silently to his wants, which was out of the ordinary.

He’d been strangely nice during this case, few scornful comments were made toward Anderson, and he took the time to give Lestrade his statements the moment the case was closed.

John told himself not to get used to it, but still enjoy it while it lasted.

Then a scream and a cry came from upstairs, shattering the serenity into a thousand sharp pieces and John shot up like a light.

“Daddy! Lockie!” Rosie screamed from upstairs.

“I'm right behind you.” Sherlock spoke as John legged it out of the living room and up the stairs, bursting into Rosie’s room and turning on the lamp at her bedside table. It casted a warm yellow glow against the walls, revealing the tear stained face of his four-year-old daughter.

“Shh now sweetheart, it’s alright, Daddy’s here.” John spoke in a gentle voice, kneeling by her bed, he pushed some of her unruly blonde hair from her face, wiping the tear tracks off her cheeks. “What’s all this about, hm?” His tone was soft, and he gave Sherlock a smile as the taller man knelt beside him.

“I h-h-had a bad d-dream!” Rosie stammered, breaking into further sobs, John pushed himself up onto her bed, bringing her into his lap as she cried, rubbing her back in an attempt to soothe her.

He went to reply but Sherlock was quicker. “I have just the cure for bad dreams you know.” He said, his voice taking on that of a story teller, every time he read a book to her, or spoke to her in general, more life found his voice than even a deduction would elicit.

The four-year-old turned her head from John’s chest to look at him, and John was looking at him with equal amount of curiosity. The detective could’ve grinned at how alike they were now Rosie could show it. “Really?” She asked with wide eyes riddled with excitement, and a genuine smile broke out onto Sherlock’s face, knowing she was going to calm down now she’d been distracted.

“Indeed. The Queen of England gave it to me herself.” He replied, enjoying the eyeroll John gave him from behind his daughter’s view, and the exhilarated grin that now resided on Rosie’s features.

“From when you went to the palace? In the sheet?”

She’d been told in little detail some of the stories from their cases. As an attempt to embarrass the older man John had told her about their Buckingham visit, but much to the doctor’s dismay that only caused her to hold Sherlock in higher regard.

“In the sheet.” Sherlock replied, confirming it, much to her delight. “Now, Daddy will read you a story, and I’ll go make it for you, I’m sure I remember how. No more tears now Rosamund, or else it won’t work.” He ruffled her hair with a gentle hand and she giggled.

A rhythmic tap against her bedside table caught his attention. It was Morse code. _What?_ John asked him.

He turned to see John looking up at him, still rubbing Rosie’s back as she got the last of the shock out of her system. _Tea_. He replied simply, his knuckles sharp against the door frame before he walked down the stairs, quick on his feet.

They’d been using Morse code to communicate little things for as long as Rosie had been able to talk. Usually short words or things that couldn’t necessarily be spoken through expressions. Other parents opted for the spelling-it-out technique, but considering Rosie was bright for her age, she’d begun learning to read.

He quite liked the system, and it seemed that John did as well.

Making tea for Rosie was possibly the easiest thing he’d ever done. Rosie hated John’s tea, bitterness hidden with milk and no sugar anywhere, so she’d stopped asking to try it every time he made a cuppa. She liked Sherlock’s a bit more though, with one sugar, and copious amounts to milk in the ratio. Sometimes when he was looking after her when John was out, she’d give him puppy dog eyes and he’d sigh and give her a chocolate digestive to dip into his mug.

She had him wrapped around her little finger and he knew it fine rightly.

Two sugars found their way into the small ceramic mug he’d bought her when they were on a case in Brighton, the childish motif of the three bears had caught his eye due to it’s striking resemblance to a mug he’d had as a boy.

He could still remember the squeal of joy and the kiss on the cheek she’d given him as a thank you for it. And he certainly remembered the span of three weeks in which it was the only cup she’d drink out of.

He made John and himself another cup, knowing that John would keep himself up worrying about her waking up again, and knowing that he’d stay up with the doctor to keep him from going insane.

And so, he made his way back up, three mugs in steady hands, and he nudged the door open with his foot.

John still had Rosie in his lap, hands wrapped around her, holding her close as they read from the story book, it was a Winnie The Pooh entry, that she adored. They were nearing the end of the familiar story and she was getting tired.

Sherlock stood quietly in the doorway watching them for a moment, he loved how calm John was when he was with her, how his worries seemed to melt away with her in his arms. His voice was low and rhythmic as he read out the words to her, and she was enticed, snuggling back into his chest as she looked at the pictures on the pages. Sherlock couldn’t believe he was even slightly jealous of his Goddaughter in that moment, but he was, _slightly_.

John smiled up at him once she closed the book, he took his mug from Sherlock with a grateful nod, and he handed Rosie her cup, she looked at it in disgust. “It’s tea, I don’t like tea.” She frowned, and John gave him a look of _I told you so_.

“Incorrect, Rosamund. It only _looks_ like tea, that’s because the Queen of England drinks it. She can’t drink anything unless it looks like tea.” Sherlock replied his tone perfectly serious, and John stared at him in disbelief, but Rosie bought it completely.

“Even coke?” She asked, crawling off John and sitting on the end of her bed so her tiny button nose was nearly against Sherlock’s own. Her deep blue eyes the mirror image of her father’s as she looked at him like a lie detector.

“Even coke.” He replied, and she backed away from him deciding he was telling the truth. “Now, you have to drink it quickly, or it won’t work.” Sherlock smiled at her and she put the cup to her lips tentatively.

“Its nice.” She said once she finished it.

Sherlock gave a hum of amusement. “Of course it is.” Taking the cup from her as John tucked her back into bed, turning down the brightness of the lamp so there was just enough to keep the room visible.

“Night, love.” John kept his tone quiet, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“I’ll be down momentarily.” Sherlock murmured to him as he walked past.

“Lockie? You gonna kiss goodnight?” Rosie asked in the dim lit bedroom. She was still able to make out Sherlock’s lean figure in the darkness.

Without hesitance, Sherlock knelt over her and placed a gentle kiss to her forehead, to which she giggled. In his attempt to turn and go downstairs, she tugged at his sleeve.

He was surprised to say the least, he certainly hadn’t calculated for it.

“I din’t kiss you g’night though?” She spoke it more as a question than a statement, her words slurred with a yawn as tiredness began to overcome her. Sherlock could barely contain a smile, as he bent down again to let her kiss his cheek. “Nuh-night Lockie.”

“Sleep well Rosamund.” His voice was hoarse, and before he realised it there were tears falling down his cheeks as he closed the door. He didn’t understand why.

Nevertheless, he wiped away the tears, and straightened his posture walking down the stairs.

John met him with a hug, John never usually hugged him off his on volition, the last time was after he dropped Rosie of at her first day of nursery.

“Thank you Sherlock.” He spoke gently as the taller man adjusted himself to hug him back. Sherlock could’ve sworn he felt John’s lips ghost his neck as the shorter man stood on his toes, head resting in the crook of Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I don’t understand.”

John pulled away, looking up at him. “You’re always so good with her, she adores you, you know. You probably know it already, but she sees you as her dad too.”

That’s when it hit him. Rosie could say his name perfectly well, he knew she could, and John only started calling him Lockie after she did, so it wasn’t by his influence.

“Lockie is her name for me.” Sherlock breathed, shocked at the realisation. She had no other equivalent for _Dad_ , so she used an abbreviation of his name to display the same affection.

“She’s your daughter too, didn’t you know that?” John asked, staring up at him like it should’ve been obvious.

He’d certainly toyed with the idea, but he always knew his boundaries and stuck to them when he could. He was her godfather, he took care of her when needs be, but he was no more than that, at least not in his own head.

Sherlock’s mind went racing at those words, his thoughts rushing straight toward Mary. He couldn’t be Rosie’s father when Mary was her mother, dead or alive it didn’t matter, John didn’t want to let her go.

Didn’t he?

“But-“

John silenced his protest, with a gentle hand on Sherlock’s chest, ironically over his heart, and the detective prayed to any deity that didn’t hate him at this point, that the doctor couldn’t feel his heartbeat racing. “But nothing Sherlock, you love her more than anything.”

Sherlock despite everything, was quick to correct him. “Incorrect.”

“How so?” John asked, eyes encasing Sherlock in an intense gaze.

“You, I love you just as much.” He breathed out, and he couldn’t believe the words that had just fallen from his lips, all rationality seemed to have left his body in that moment and he could have cursed himself had it not been for the doctor’s next actions.

“Sherlock?” John asked, his eyes flicking to the detective’s lips and back to his eyes in a matter of seconds. The question of his name held so many more words than the only one spoken, and Sherlock knew them all.

“John.” He answered simply, moving his hand to cup the shorter man’s face, leaning down to press his lips against John’s, gently first, before John pushed back harder.

It was gentle, and warm and nothing like he’d imagined it would happen, if ever.

He thought it would take place after a case, yes. But he thought it would be because John was hyped up on adrenaline and lost all cognitive thoughts. He thought it would happen in the heat of the moment and go unspoken for years to come.

He didn’t imagine it would take place in their living room at three in the morning after the realisation that he had a family.

Because he did have a family. No matter how dysfunctional, or out of the ordinary.

“So, you’re okay with all of this?” Sherlock asked, once he gained the willpower to pull away.

“Yes- of course- more than okay.” John replied, unsure of what answer would be the best to give, instead choosing to give them all. “More than okay.” He settled for, and Sherlock smirked at the habit.

He studied John’s face in concern, trying to find any traces of lying, certain that this couldn’t be real. “And you don’t mind that I’m- That I’m not- That I don’t necessarily experience things in the same ways you may be used to?” He asked, somewhat desperate for the dream to shatter, scared of what might come after if it continued, panic jolting through his veins at all the potential consequences.

Because he couldn’t lose them. John. Rosie. He couldn’t. Not now.

“Sherlock, you know more than anyone that I’m in love with you. Nothing will change that. I’m going to learn more as- whatever _this_ is progresses. But I meant it when I said it’s _all_ fine.” John replied, pushing himself up to kiss Sherlock again, not satisfied until the taller man relaxed into it, kissing him back.

“It’s all fine.”


End file.
